PUNCH.—What a green chap you are, after all. A public man’s consistency! It’s only a popular delusion, sir. I’ll tell you what’s consistency, sir. When one gentleman’s in and won’t come out, and when another gentleman’s out and can’t get in, and when both gentlemen persevere in their determination—that’s consistency. MANAGER.—I understand; but still I think it is the duty of every public man to—— PUNCH.—(sings)— “Wheel about and turn about, And do jes so; Ebery time he turn about, He jumps Jim Crow.” MANAGER.—Then it is your opinion that the prospects of the Whigs are not very flattering? PUNCH.—’Tis all up with them, as the young lady remarked when Mr. Green and his friends left Wauxhall in the balloon; they haven’t a chance. The election returns are against them everywhere. England deserts them—Ireland fails them—Scotland alone sticks with national attachment to their backs, like a— THE DOG TOBY.—Bow, wow, wow, wough! MANAGER.—Of course, then, the Tories will take office—? PUNCH.—I rayther suspect they will. Have they not been licking their chops for ten years outside the Treasury door, while the sneaking Whigs were helping themselves to all the fat tit-bits within? Have they not growled and snarled all the while, and proved by their barking that they were the fittest guardians of the country? Have they not wept over the decay of our ancient and venerable constitution—? And have they not promised and vowed, the moment they got into office, that they would—Send round the hat. MANAGER.—Very good, Mr. Punch; but I should like to know what the Tories mean to do about the corn-laws? Will they give the people cheap food? PUNCH.—No, but they’ll give them cheap drink. They’ll throw open the Thames for the use of the temperance societies. MANAGER.—But if we don’t have cheap corn, our trade must be destroyed, our factories will be closed, and our mills left idle. PUNCH.—There you’re wrong. Our tread-mills will be in constant work; and, though our factories should be empty, our prisons will be quite full. MANAGER.—That’s all very well, Mr. Punch; but the people will grumble a leetle if you starve them. PUNCH.—Ay, hang them, so they will; the populace have no idea of being grateful for benefits. Talk of starvation! Pooh!—I’ve studied political economy in a workhouse, and I know what it means. They’ve got a fine plan in those workhouses for feeding the poor devils. They do it on the homoeopathic system, by administering to them oatmeal porridge in infinitessimal doses; but some of the paupers have such proud stomachs that they object to the diet, and actually die through spite and villany. Oh! ’tis a dreadful world for ingratitude! But never mind—Send round the hat. MANAGER.—What is the meaning of the sliding scale, Mr. Punch?